


Natural Instincts

by psyche_girl



Category: Hannibal (TV), His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Cannibalism, Daemon-touching of the VERY VERY bad kind, Daemons, Gen, Hannibal is a creepy fuck, Only dubiously gen, Rabid dogs, Really Hannibal is really actually very disturbed this cannot be emphasized highly enough, Thoughts about eating people, Will likes dogs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-16
Updated: 2013-11-16
Packaged: 2017-12-26 18:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/968943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psyche_girl/pseuds/psyche_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days, Hannibal wonders if he is the only man alive who remembers that dogs were killers and hunters and carnivores before they were ever tamed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Will Graham _loves_ dogs.

Will Graham smells like prey _all over_.

And Will Graham’s daemon is a great horned stag.

_We were made for each other_ , is the second thing Hannibal thinks, once the heady pulse of adrenaline and craving has faded a little from his and Canniba’s minds, enough for each of them to think in words again rather than through the instinct-heavy haze of _scentbitetear_. A _stag._ Sixteen hands or greater from hoof to shoulder if he stands an inch, the antlers twisted dark and regal and sinister above the solid arch of the neck, muscled and barrel-chested and bursting with hot wet pants of life. Long ragged strands of fur hang from his sculpted sides like lace, like the old man’s beard that graces thickly over the most ancient and powerful Virginia oaks.  This stag is architecture made flesh, it is every piece of true art Hannibal’s eyes have ever captured, it is the last note of a symphony drawn wild into his ears and nose, and it is so very, very, beautifully _alive_.

_We were made for each other._

_He smells good_ , thinks Canniba, and in that phrase is wrapped all the same crushing shock and exhilaration that Hannibal himself is reeling with. He buries his hand in the fur of her neck, fingers aping – just for a moment – the shape of a collar. A reminder: to her (to himself) of where they are. That they must follow the rules of this society they move through.

Some days, Hannibal wonders if he is the only man alive who remembers that dogs were killers and hunters and carnivores before they were ever tamed. Hannibal's daemon may be a dog, yes, but Canniba’s red-rimmed eyes see with the clear savagery of what a canine was _meant_ to be, rather than the fawning, servile pet that everyone seems to expect from them. It is so terribly easy to get people to _trust_ you, when your daemon is a dog. People see a dog daemon and they think _loyal_ , they think _affectionate_ and _kind_ and _loving_ and _warm-hearted. Dependable. Obedient._

_Safe._

They don't see the longing that sings so beautiful beneath the surface of Hannibal's polished suits and phrases, under Canniba's soft fur, running darker and deeper than any civilized so-called morality: the urge for bloody meat, for savagery, the urge to kill.

Just now, confronted with the banquet of prey-smell that is Will Graham and his stag, it is hard for them to bite those urges back. Harder than it has been in a long time, since they were still sixteen years old and stupid with the feeling of what true meat tasted like.

_He smells- oh, **Hannibal** -_

He knows what she means. What is worse, he knows exactly which _he_ his daemon is referring to, and the knowledge shocks him right down to the core.

Until meeting Will Graham, Canniba has never wanted to share in Hannibal's own meals. Until Will Graham, Hannibal has never felt the desire to taste another man’s daemon.

Flesh, yes. Death and pain and the bloody kill, he knows as intimately as most men know the sin of Onan. But all of that was clean – natural. The way of the predator.

(They are well aware that other people wouldn’t see it that way, but what other people think doesn’t count. They _know_ this. They can smell prey. Other people are nothing more than organs and limbs, so much flesh to be dismembered.)

But the great taboo – the crossing over of souls into bodies, the foul transgress of one spirit into another flesh – that, they have known since infancy for the repellent violation that it is. He and Canniba were both mystified and then repulsed, back at university in Zurich, by the reports they read of the codependent, the depraved, the desperately sadistic urges that lead perverted individuals to their lay hands upon another persons’ soul. Here was an impulse they truly could not comprehend. Why should either of them ever wish to sully themselves with the touch of lesser minds? Feed off of them, yes, grow strong, that is their privilege and their right and when they savor their spoils together in their lair in the dark he trembles with the joy of watching Canniba devour the daemon flesh of their victims – but they are always and only _for_ each other. Hannibal feeds on the humans – he has learned tricks, over the years, to harvest gradually, to keep the meat alive for as long as possible so Canniba can have more time to enjoy herself – and Canniba feeds on the daemons. That is the way it has always been.

But now...Now Hannibal wants to taste Will, yes – already, he can almost sense the tang of the man’s blood, the sweet burst of his eyeballs – but even more, he wants to taste Will’s daemon. Hannibal wants to draw it and quarter it and drink its blood, siphon the juices from its bared-open stomach, gorge himself upon the fat of the haunches until he’s sick with it, burrow out the secret blood-veins deep within its marrow. He wants to bury his teeth in all that _meat_ -

Hannibal did not know he could _feel_ this way. Already, he is regretting that Will must die; he wants to kill Will again and again and _again_.

Canniba, pressed against his side, is quivering.

“We should ask their names,” Canniba prompts.

Hannibal barely suppresses a startled blink. Canniba almost never speaks aloud, and never, certainly, in front of prey.

“It is only polite,” she adds, her eyes glued to Will's hands. Canniba does not stare like a normal dog, all sheathed aggression and courteous glances-away, and Hannibal is uncomfortably aware that she’s probably making a spectacle of herself right now.

“Quite right. How rude of me.” He steps up on autopilot to take Will Graham’s hand, noting absently that Will is staring at Canniba too. “I am Doctor Hannibal Lecter, and this is Canniba, my canine. Please, do feel free to make a joke. I have heard most of them before, but I am always ready to expand my collection.”

Hannibal's attempt at polite humor falls completely flat. The only sign that his presence has even been acknowledged is the tightening of Will's hand on his as Hannibal attempts to let go.

 “She- she’s beautiful,” Will stammers. “Canniba, you said, I- is she purebred? You look like a sighthound- hortaya borzara, I'd guess, unless you have some borzi in you- I- I've never seen a member of that breed with a long coat before-”

Will is _staring_ at Canniba.

The last man to examine her this closely had ended up declaring she was rabid. Hannibal had char-broiled his liver in a white-wine sauce with sautéed crimini mushrooms - a crude, simple meal, to avenge the insult - and Canniba had spent nearly fifteen methodical hours stripping the flesh from off his monkey daemon’s bones.

Hannibal wonders if, in addition to his really astonishingly inappropriate observations about Canniba's breed, Will has taken the time to note the slavering strength of her sheathed fangs, the slight red tinge lining her pupils, the unbowed pride in her direct stare. Hannibal is well aware Canniba is not like most dogs.

“Very astute, Mr. Graham.”

Will, belatedly, seems to have realized he is being rude, and hastily drops both Hannibal's hand and his gaze down from Canniba's.

“I- I- I like dogs,” Will adds, to a space three inches above Hannibal's shoulders, and flushes right up to his hairline.

Hannibal is well aware of the supposed proclivities individuals with daemons of the same gender as themselves. However, as a mental health professional, he is equally aware of a number of notable exceptions to this so-called rule. He very carefully makes no assumptions either way about the way Will is going slowly pinkish, beyond the brief private acknowledgement that if Will does indeed find Hannibal sexually appealing, this entire hunt is about to become rather disappointingly easy.

“Your daemon is also most remarkable,” Hannibal answers, to draw attention away from Will’s flushed blunders. He bites back the words (magnificent, extraordinary, delectable) he wants to use instead; none of them would be adequate anyway. There is nothing, absolutely _nothing,_ that could adequately describe the beauty of Will Graham’s daemon. Hannibal can’t wait to take him apart.

“His name’s Asper.”

This shy admission, and a concurrent duck of the gracious horned head, seem to exhaust the total remaining stock of both Will’s and Asper’s social niceties. Fortunately for everyone involved (because if those huge liquid black eyes keep looking at him like that, Hannibal is not going to be held responsible for his actions), Jack Crawford is both ready and impatient to take over the conversation. Will Graham fixes his eyes on the carpet, Asper retreats tothe far end of four feet away and doesn’t move or speak at all for the rest of the meeting, and they both revert to stealing glances over at Hannibal and Canniba through two sets of disconcertingly similar wide, dark-lashed eyes.

It is all Hannibal can do to stop himself from moving closer, from staring back. At his side, he can feel Canniba shaking, sense the saliva building in her mouth with every second she stands within scenting distance of Will, and he digs his fingers into her ruff, and watches the way Will’s eyes follow his hands’ movements, and holds on as tightly as they both dare.

Hannibal goes to sleep that night and dreams of venison.

The next morning, he wakes up and carefully discards all the deer-based foodstuff in their refrigerator and all six of the closest storage facilities. At Canniba’s insistence, he goes back through them again afterward and discards all the human hearts as well, without protest or question, despite the fact that they are his very favorite joints of meat and terrifically difficult to come by. He understands Canniba as well as she does him.

They’re saving themselves for Will now.


	2. Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had thought this story was finished, but apparently Will and Canniba had other ideas. You can consider this an AU, if you like - daemon-touching as it might have occurred. Set sometime before s1e5.

_Do you think there are others like us out there?_ Canniba wonders some weeks later, on their way to a football-field murder scene outside Tampa, FL.

Hannibal doesn't need to ask her to clarify the question. It would be absurdity itself to imagine another pair of hunters like them, although of course he knows there exist imitations - poor, grasping, clumsy things, unable to reach true predatory potential. No, Canniba means this other thing. This desire for the touch - the taste - of a flesh and a soul not their own. Hannibal finds it curiously appealing to contemplate the existence of his fellow-perverts, a host of quietly depraved individuals wandering through the world unseen and unnoticed.

 _If there are any,_ he answers, _we haven't met them yet._

Canniba doesn't respond. He knows why without looking; they're within scenting distance of Will, and whenever Will is near, Canniba has at most half her attention to spare for lesser concerns.

Hannibal can't really blame her. He cannot strip the low musk of Asper's smell from his sleeping mind. Daily, his dreams grow more elaborate, more grandiose. More desperate.

 _Will_ _wants to touch me_ , Canniba tells him, trembling as they both stoop to duck under the FBI crimei-scene tape and brace themselves against the renewed wash of temptation. _I think. You can see it in the way he keeps eyeing my fur_.

Fascinating. So. Their Good Will is one of those quietly depraved individuals.

Hannibal suppresses a delighted shiver. It’s not an idea that particularly would have occurred to him, but, now that he thinks of it...

 _You may encourage him, if you wish_ , he informs her graciously.

 _I’m not sure I could stand not to bite him_ , she says, sounding halfway regretful. _Imagine if you were close enough to put your hands on that_ stag.

Hannibal can. Oh, he _can_ , and he-

He cannot think about this with Jack Crawford standing less than six feet away.

_Later_ , he promises himself. _Later_.

_How_ much _later?_ Canniba begs. _I want to hunt them._ He can feel the faint whine, low in the base of her throat where it presses into his leg.

Across the busy backs of the crouching FBI techs, busily scraping entrails up from the blood-soaked arena stands, Will and Asper are watching them. Will and Asper watch them often, recently; in their sessions, Hannibal can almost feel the stag's stubbornly silent gaze like a soft cloak of deerskin around his shoulders.

_Sometimes I think they’re going to enjoy this chase as much as we will_ , Canniba muses.

And _fuck hell lytiškai santykiauti,_ that is something Hannibal _absolutely cannot think_ , not when the entire FBI is crawling over leftover human offal not four feet away, not when he can smell the sweat and the musk of Will and Will’s stag and he hasn’t been eating right for weeks now because everything tastes wrong except venison and he- he-

“Are you ok?”

Will is standing in front of them. Hannibal can’t stop his start of shock, any more than he can stop himself from staring. He can’t stop staring, and he _has_ to stop staring, because any second now he is going to find a weapon, it doesn’t matter anymore that he’s left his knives behind, that he leaves his knives behind every time he comes near Will these days, because he can see at least six things within three seconds’ reach that could be used to gut Will, to kill Will, before Will moves any further away, he would trap Will’s throat between his teeth right now and tether them together for the few long seconds of Will’s life and his own very short freedom if only it wouldn’t destroy that beautiful _daemon_ -

Canniba makes a low savage noise, resonating against his knee tendons, midway between a growl and a canine scream.

Hannibal comes back to his senses shuddering, blinking furiously to clear the invisible taste of Will's lifeblood from his palate. He is all too aware that he probably looks ill right now; there is sweat across his forehead, and several of the FBI techs in the background have begun to stare. Shakily, he makes an effort to pull himself together.

“I am- not feeling quite well,” Hannibal manages.

There is a rustling sound from their left, and the stag suddenly looms up beside Will, Will reaching up automatically to loop an arm around his neck. Asper's nostrils are close enough that Hannibal can feel the air move against his cheek. The great eyes are huge and liquid.

Hannibal is frozen. He is afraid of what he will do if he moves. He is afraid to shatter this moment.

“We were worried,” Will says. His voice is ridiculously casual, as if Canniba were not still trembling and trapped down between them and practically slavering at the mouth. As if his own daemon were not standing six inches inside Hannibal’s personal space, with the whole FBI watching behind them.

“I am not well,” Hannibal repeats. _Why_ can’t he think of anything to say. Below him, Canniba gives a low helpless whine, and brushes her nose up against the back of Will’s hanging hand.

It’s as if the whole world goes dull for a second, sensation sparking along receptors that Hannibal had not been aware he possessed until this moment. He can _feel_ Will, through the rough skin, feels him phosphoresce along sensors built within the soul-deep link that has so far only ever encompassed his own mind and Canniba’s.

_Oh_ , he thinks, in that frozen second. _Oh, my dear, that was very unwise_.

He’s only aware a second too late that he’s taken a sharp breath in; aware a second later that that this movement has destroyed any plausible deniability Canniba might have managed. Will’s eyes go as huge and round as saucers in front of them.

Asper shudders, a shiver running all the way down through the glorious frame.

“Oh,” Will breaths, eyes wide and fixed. Will is staring at Canniba. Canniba has averted her eyes, caught, her ears tucked down and back in alarm.

And then Will drops down to one knee in front of them, and buries both his hands to the wrist in her golden fur.

Hannibal is shaking, skewered-open. He can’t seem to tear his eyes away from Asper. The stag's massive lungs are sliding slick and wet beneath his ragged skin, gulping great heated bellows of air.

Will totally ignores the roar of agitated sound he is provoking from the surrounding FBI spectators, ignores the clanging sound behind them as one of the CSI techs falls off her bleacher, ignores Jack’s distant, alarmed litany of profanity. In this moment, all Will can see is Canniba, and all Hannibal can see is-

Meat. Blood. _Chaseyou_ chase _youkillyoutear_ -

Low, beneath the indescribable pleasure whiting out all of Canniba’s senses, Hannibal watches the secret, joyful, wondering expression steal over Will’s face, and thinks, _this is_ _how we hunt you_.

_This is my design_.

**Author's Note:**

> Picture of Canniba: http://www.hortaya.wbl.sk/  
> Picture of Asper: http://www.istockphoto.com/stock-photo-20304412-red-deer-stag-head-engraving.php
> 
> (Yes, I know, the name thing is wince-worthily obvious, but I just could not resist. ;)


End file.
